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Then thine it is, to whom belong
Thrice sacred multitude !
In thee, vast All! are these contain'd, For thee are those, thy parts ordain'd,
So nature's systems roll: The sceptre's thine, if such there be; If none there is, then thou art free,
Great monarch! mighty whole!
Let the proud tyrant rest his cause
An host's or senate's voice!
gave the species choice.
Unsanctified by thy command, Unown'd by thee, the scepter'd hand
The trembling slave may bind. But loose from nature's moral ties, The oath by force impos'd belies
The unassenting mind.
Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end;
What parent nature gave:
Thy victim or thy slave.
Thus reason founds the just degree
Not private rights resign'd:
To hurt the gen’ral kind.
Thee justice guides, thee right maintains,
Thy injur'd weal impair.
Thy temper'd counsels share.
Each instance of thy vengeful rage,
Though malice swell the sum,
Or Sylla's hippodrome.
But thine has been imputed blame,
The rabble weak and loud;
A more ignoble crowd.
Avails it thee, if one devours,
While both thy claim oppose?
Monsters who wore thy sullied crown,
Alike to thee were foes.
Far other shone fair Freedom's hand,
When Hampden fought for thee:
Of arts and industry.
On thee yet foams the preacher's rage,
A false apostate train :
Thy thousands strow the plain.
These had no charms to please the sense,
To win the Muse's throng:
And Nature mourns his wrong.
Thy foes, a frontless band, invade;
And yield up half the right.
On man's too feeble sight.
Hence are the motley systems fram'd, Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd;
Distinctions weak and vain. Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd,
Her pow'rs and rights remain.
While law the royal agent moves,
We bow through him to you.
Alike in one, or few!
Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,
And only dares betray; With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail,
To pilfer pow'r away?
O! shall the bought, and buying tribe,
A people's claims enjoy!
Of wretches they destroy.
“ Avert it, heav'n! you love the brave, “ You hate the treach'rous, willing slave,
« The self-devoted head.
« Nor shall an hireling's voice convey “ That sacred prize to lawless sway,
« For which a nation bled.”
Vain pray’r, the coward's weak resource!
Propitious heaven bestows.
Before their weaker foes.
In names there dwell no magic charms,
Unloos’d our fathers' band :
To save a sinking land?
Far, far from us such ills shall be,
One monarch truly great:
Whose strength a prosp'rous state.